“Was she happy working for the Lakes?”
“Well…she was crazy about Audrey. Lovely little thing. And she was head over heels for Jayston. But the mother—Fiona—was a real piece of work.”
“I understand that Fiona may have been…jealous. Suspicious of Claire and Jayston.”
“Absolute madness, right? Jayston Lake was old enough to be Claire’s father. Put Claire in tears when Fiona accused her. I told her it wasn’t worth it. No amount of cash was worth putting up with cruelty. Folks like the Lakes—they think money buys everything. They act like they own you. I said, ‘Darling, you can walk away anytime. You don’t have to take that rubbish.’ But she wanted to stay.”
“Claire left the yacht on Saturday night,” Nikki said. “In Capri. Did she tell you she was leaving?”
Lydia shook her head. “No.”
“What was she like in the days before she went missing? Did she seem alright?”
Lydia put a hand to her forehead, and took a deep breath.
“I can’t shake it off. She rang me the first day they docked—I remember it was Friday. She always did that. Normally, she’d be bubbling over about how fantastic everything was. But not this time. She sounded…different, you know? Not herself. She was in tears, saying she wanted to hop on the next flight back. I told her, ‘Then come back, simple as that.’ But she insisted she had to stay put. I just wish…I wish she’d come back. I wish I’d known what was eating at her.”
“Did she say she was meeting anyone?”
“Who would she meet? She didn’t know anyone in Italy.”
“Was Claire romantically involved with anyone who might have met her up in Naples?”
“Nah. She was too shy for that. She was a natural with kids—more than that, brilliant with them. But she struggled with people her own age. She was more into books than boys.”
“She’d never had a boyfriend?” Nikki asked.
“Just mates. I said to her, ‘It’s alright to take your time. You’ll get there eventually. There’s plenty of time for all that later on.’ ”
The words seemed to strike Lydia afresh, and she began crying again. Nikki excused herself and, returning with a glass of water and a handful of bar napkins, found that Lydia had been joined by a matronly woman in a long, pleated skirt.
“Oh, my dear,” the woman said to Lydia. “What are you doing out here all on your lonesome? No wonder you’re feeling down. This is meant to be a celebration of Claire’s life. Come along. Let’s fetch you something to eat.”
Lydia nodded.
“This is Nikki,” she said, accepting the napkins from Nikki and blowing her nose. “She’s looking into what happened to Claire.”
The matronly woman drew herself up. Her voice was sharp with indignation: “What are you doing here? This is completely inappropriate. This is a private event of the Albion Nanny Agency.”
“It’s alright,” Lydia protested, but the woman stopped her with a hand and rounded on Nikki. “I don’t know what dirt you’re trying to dig up but let me make it perfectly clear that the ANA bears no liability whatsoever. You shouldn’t be here.”
“She can come—” Lydia started to say, but the woman interrupted her with a flutter of hands, shooing Nikki away.
“Get out! Go! You heard me. Leave!”
—
The pub was filling with the dinner crowd. Nikki chose a table, and ordered a beer, a vegetarian burger, and a plate of fried haloumi. She logged in to the pub’s wi-fi with her phone and looked at the Facebook page for Claire’s memorial event, where people had begun posting pictures and leaving messages. She scrolled through, cross-checking the names with those in the photos she’d taken of the condolence book.Among the condolences, she found Sally Tate’s name and the message,Nobody misses you more than me. XOXO.
Sally had also posted to the Facebook memorial page: eight selfies, three wide shots of the memorial, and a dozen photos of Teddy Sexton as he laughed with a cluster of women.
Nikki sent connection requests to Sally on Facebook and Instagram.
Next, she followed the tags of Teddy to his social media accounts, where she found a collection of pictures of the toned and handsome man: in an art gallery; drinking and laughing with friends; sitting beneath a blossoming tree and reading a copy ofInfinite Jest; lifting weights at the gym; sparring in a boxing ring. From this account, she navigated easily to his other social media sites and to the website of a company he owned called Innovare MindCapsule, which boasted a “personal growth companion” offering “neurofeedback, time-capsule messaging, and cognitive training.” The company had been featured in a few online magazines, and Nikki scrolled a range of testimonials from beautifully coiffed young men and women.
An architect called the MindCapsule “an absolute revelation.” A PhD student described it as “grounding and inspiring,” and a creative director said that it was “a game changer for anyone looking to push their creative boundaries.” After a half hour of reading through the website and testimonials, Nikki wasn’t sure she understood precisely what Innovare MindCapsule was offering.
—
